Extensions (18 page)

“You weren't brought up that way.”

“Have you forgotten my line of work?” I tried to roll over on my side toward him, but a sting from the intravenous needle in the other arm reminded me I wasn't free to do so. My shoulder also screamed at this motion. “What time is it?”

“Almost eight. Visiting hours are over.”

“Day?”

“Wednesday.”

“One way to get out of history class. We were to get our papers back. I should say your paper with my name on it.”

“I didn't do that much. You put it all together.”

“Yeah, I put the sheets from the printer in the right order.”

Dad stood up to go. “I'll be back tomorrow. Anything you need?”

“My history books.” I enjoyed the expression on his face: as if I had been hit in the head instead of the foot. “And one more thing: Jane's last letter is on my dresser. Please bring it too.”

He stood next to me for a moment, pausing before he spoke. “You know, my first reaction when Sukhwinder phoned me was ‘How will Bella get through this without her mother?' But my next thought was relief that she's spared the worry. And seeing you now, I know you'll be fine, if you do what they tell you in here.”

I nodded as he rubbed the top of my head gently: it said more than a kiss would have from a more physically affectionate man.

After he left, a pretty little nurse came and explained in more detail what Dad had already outlined about my foot. I would have to be in here a few more days. While checking my functions and equipment, she remarked in a Caribbean accent: “You're brave to put your life on the line every day.”

“I could say the same to you,” I replied, feeling more negligent than brave. “You have a lot more than one life in your hands.”

I was practically asleep when she left, and as usual lately, Jane Owens was in the twilight. At least her life of drudgery was a safe one.

DRYING DOES NOT HELP Jane's clammy hands. Like blood in a fresh wound, the cold film reappears as soon as she blots it and lifts the towel away. From the bedroom her mother's loud sighs are not enough to penetrate her thoughts until they become almost a shout.

“Jane!”

Mechanically, her legs carry her to the chamber of lavender and menthol they once shared.

“Can't you hear me? Or your brother coughing? You're in your head again.”

When she concentrates, Jane does hear Gomer's raw rasps almost shaking the framework of Thomas' bedroom, but they have been background sounds for too long to distract her at the moment.

“Would you make him some hot lemon and honey? I don't have the strength for it right now.”

“There are no lemons in the house.”

“He'll have to hack away then. And fill Tommy's room with germs.”

“I'll check with Salos. They might give us one or two until I can get to the store.” Jane dries the last cup and sets it in the cupboard before wiping her hands again.

“You know I don't like to borrow. Gomer will get through this if you boil some water for vapours.”

Her mother's words dispatch a bolt of resolve in Jane. She will go to Louis, after all. She cannot waste precious minutes babying her brother with a vapour tent when he gets as many colds as he can to keep from going to school. The numbness that seized her after hearing Lance Cruikshank on the road an hour ago is now transformed into determination of equal measure. In the early January darkness he did not notice her on the other side, but she could not miss his belligerent, drunken words to a fellow miner.

“Everybody's patience with that darkie has run out. We'll have a new coal seam soon, with or without the slave's permission.”

A sharp crack of laughter followed Jane out of earshot. She had kept quiet the first time she heard Lance, but now she must warn Louis. What can an old man do? And what will be the consequences? At least Louis should know of this talk, if he doesn't already. His family might be able to help him. “I'll find a lemon for Gomer,” she says abruptly, untying her apron and hanging it in the scullery. She notices her hands are dry.

“You shouldn't be out after dark. Cougars, you know.” By her tone, Mary Owens concedes she is no match for the firmness in her daughter's.

“It's dark before supper now. I walk home in it every day.” Jane has her cloak on before her mother can mention the vapour tent again. “I'll be careful.”

She laces her boots, wraps a shawl around her head and shoulders, and steps into the damp night. Once outside, she digs her hands in the pockets of her long woollen cardigan, wishing she had brought her gloves. At least Thomas is working night shift, making her mission easier.

She looks toward the Salo house, envisioning Gertie and her oversized brothers sitting in their small kitchen filled with cabbage and turnip fumes. She has no intention of exchanging words with them over a lemon, while their mother demands in Finnish from the other room to know what they are saying. Hastening her step, she is soon heading in the opposite direction toward Louis Strong's log house. Traces of yesterday's snow cling to the base of trees and bushes, but the trail itself is clear. Her heart pounding with urgency, she is sure of her purpose, though not quite sure of what she will say.

Jane knows the route so well she could probably traverse it blindfolded without straying into too many thorns, but she welcomes the moon's accompaniment tonight. Its eerie light foils clouds and evergreens to guide her. She thinks of Hansel and Gretel, part of her lost childhood world in Wales. A rustle in the bush startles her until the hoot of an owl assures her it is not a cougar but some small prey running for cover. She moves so quickly she does not expect the shack of Butch Hargraves to appear as soon as it does.

Instinctively, she slows to listen for signs of life inside or out; if not, she always hurries past. Tonight muffled sounds issue from the cabin, indistinguishable until she gets closer. Voices. She stops short and crouches, finding a limited line of vision between the Oregon grape bushes and the window, lit by an oil lamp. Two figures move back and forth until one stops with his back to her. She recognizes the faded green shirt she has washed so often on the tall, stooped man. The bulkier one paces back and forth, the grimy windowpane muting words that convey frequent surges of tone. Louis turns to the side, and Jane sees he is holding his rifle. Have they just come back from hunting? When Butch stops to make a point, Louis turns away from him toward the window, half-cocking the rifle, then lifting it close to his bad eyes as if to inspect it. Butch backs away, reminding Jane of Louis' claim that he was a better shot and Butch knew it.

Jane pulls the shawl tighter around her head and throat, then reclenches her cold fingers in the pockets of her cardigan. When she looks back to the window, neither man is in view. The creak of a wooden door at the side alerts her they are coming out. Jane quickly ducks from the trail behind a bush closer to the cabin. Louis emerges, black woollen toque on his head, tired feet trudging down the path.

“Ah got no time for this now. Ma son Maynard comin' home and he's what's on ma mind. Ma place want cleanin' up for him and that's whe' ah goin.'”

Normally Jane loves seeing the milky old eyes brighten when Louis speaks of his children, but tonight his words carry a harshness she has not heard before. Jane already knows of Maynard's return from a year of gold prospecting up north. She hopes to meet the older son by timing her laundry delivery while he is there, always trying in vain not to allow Adam's presence into this anticipation. Louis proceeds without looking back.

Butch has not ventured far from his hut. He hawks a wad of spittle into a bush next to his door. Jane does not see him reappear in the window light, nor does she hear the door scraping shut. Maybe he has gone to relieve himself in the trees, as Tommy does after a night at the pub. What else could he be doing at the back in the dark? Nothing there but two small butchering sheds. According to Louis, one contains hammers, knives, and axes for finishing off the slaughter and cutting up the carcass; the other is to hang the meat for curing. Both are without light.

Though she has an urge to make a break for it and catch up with Louis, Jane stays huddled behind the bush. She is afraid to reveal herself with a sound, in case Butch is closer than she thinks. The cold pinches her toes and, as usual, her nose has begun to drip. She fishes for a handkerchief in her cardigan, wishing it were gloves. A spell of silence encourages her to inch forward, peering for a better view of the door. It is still ajar. But there is no sign of Henry Hargraves. She thinks of Mama, hoping she has fallen asleep and will accept the explanation that the Salos did not have a lemon so she walked all the way to the store but it had just closed. She should not be away too long. From the sound of Louis' voice, he has had his own warning, making her mission unnecessary. She backs up slowly, convinced now to retrace her steps home as quietly and quickly as she can.

Just then, the light is extinguished in the cabin and the door slams shut. Butch stomps down the path and turns in the direction of Louis Strong's log cabin. The sudden transition back to darkness prevents her from being sure, but Jane believes she sees something in his hand.

She begins to tremble. Cold hands and feet forgotten, she feels her entire body shivering with fear. Longing to flee, she remains helplessly rooted to a square of moss behind an Oregon grape bush on the edge of the Hargraves property. Clouds have temporarily obscured the moon, and like the rest of the forest creatures, she must rely on her other senses for direction.

Butch's steps come to a standstill not far away. An abrupt halt followed by what she hears as a heavy sidestep into twigs and leaves. In the distance more steps, approaching from the opposite direction. Plodding feet at a rhythmic pace.

The next sound Jane hears will remain with her for the rest of her life. A clipped thud, occupying no more than a split second of time, less audible than a single tap on a door. Was it a hammer, the blunt edge of a poleaxe? Whatever the weapon, the blow was excruciating in its simplicity and ordinariness. Perfectly executed, an exact target cushioned by wool, by hair, by scalp, as if it were the soft spot on baby Norman's head. Not a grunt, a moan, or a scream. The vacuum of sound and light gives way to a putrid smell and a metallic taste in her mouth. A stew of the worst odours imaginable mingle in her nostrils: brackish water left standing in a vase, Butch's breath and stale clothes from the time he got close to her on the path, rotten eggs, spoiled chicken, the privy before she puts lye in. All conspire to choke her into a sputtering cough, but she catches herself. One of the men — but only one — has begun breathing again. Heavy panting as he drags his kill toward her.

Jane's mind hurtles through choices. She cannot turn back or the fickle moon, in full force on the path again, will give her away. She cannot stay crouched in the bush, so close to Butch's cabin. Her only recourse is to creep quietly behind the windowless end wall of the cabin until Butch goes inside. She matches her movements to his puffing breaths and reaches the backyard just as he turns down the path, manoeuvring the dead weight behind him. Hiding behind the smaller curing shed, she waits until he is at the side door of his cabin. Instead of going in, he continues in her direction.

Jane's terror is about to burst into something she cannot control. At the sight of the moonlit green shirt bobbing lifelessly past her just a few feet away, she swallows hard to stem dark bile oozing into her throat. She presses herself against the back wall, away from Butch pulling the corpse into the butchering shack like a deer carcass. Will he hack off a leg if it doesn't fit?

To steady herself, Jane grabs at a protrusion she makes out in the darkness. A hasp on the door of the curing shed. Sharp and ragged, it slices into two of her fingers. She touches it with the other hand and a rough finish tells her it is rusty. She squats, doubling over. The delayed pain spreading through her fingers from the cut barely registers against growing nausea that threatens to empty her insides. “I must not faint,” she repeats, now past prayer and into an animal fight to survive.

At last, Butch slams the door of the other shed and thumps back into his cabin. Soon the lamp makes visible a wedge of the area just beyond her hiding spot. She resists an urge to look through the window. To see what a murderer looks like. Have Henry Hargraves' features rearranged themselves like a werewolf in order to perform such an act? Would he have gone all the way to Louis' cabin if Louis had not come back down the path? His repulsive face and manner had not prepared her for a possibility like this. Even more, she wants to slip into the butchering shed to touch the face of her old friend lying crumpled there. Perhaps there is still a pulse and she can revive him. And have her noisy efforts rewarded with a sledgehammer to both their skulls?